The Music Inside
by shipperchick
Summary: Your basic Lex-and-Chloe-at-a-club story, with (hopefully) my own gritty, twisty, flavor.


Title: Turn of The Hour  
  
Author: shipperchick  
  
Category: vignette, Chloe/Lex  
  
Timeline: No spoilers, but I see this as a 'somewhere in the near future' fic  
  
Summary: Your basic Lex-and-Chloe-at-a-club story, written with my own twisty flavor, I hope.  
  
Disclaimer: Lex and Chloe do not belong to me. If they did, Chloe wouldn't be the single most underused character in television, and Lex wouldn't be engaged to The Mascara Doc. (Translation: The characters and situations of 'Smallville' are the property of Warner Bros. and DC Comics. No profit is being made from this endeavor.)  
  
Author's notes: Unbeta'ed. Written in about two hours, which for me is a miracle of speed, while waiting for my muse on the sequel to 'Turn Of The Hour'. Sorry if it's awful.  
  
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Door opened, and the atmosphere hit him like a sweaty slap in the face, literally. He drank it in, eyes, ears, and nose, the thick miasma of heat and sweat and smoke that was like oxygen to him. He had a moment to thank the Lord God above that the smoking ban choking the life out of places like this had been lifted, but only a moment, and then the Music hit.  
  
Hard, sharp, pulsating, it hit his veins and rearranged his heartbeat, pushing the blood to his head and it was an emotional dialysis as it poured its way into him, leaving no room for the hate or fear or pain, just enough for Him and the music. And he smiled. It was good to be home.  
  
The beat pushed him along with the waves of people surging towards the pulsating heart of the floor. They stopped as always, at the edge, uncertain and unsure of the twisting, writhing beast that lay before them that waited, arms open, to enfold them.  
  
He stood with them and admired the beast, its mindless, thoughtless elegance, its casual freneticism. The hordes twisted and twirled, waxed and waned, and he caught sight of a few sparkling gems in its midst. A flash of color here, a burst of movement there. The crowds shifted again, and he saw Her.  
  
A goddess, shimmering and golden. He saw Her. He knew Her, and He smiled. It was without thought, without consideration, - but hey, wasn't that the point of the Music?  
  
He strode forward, all lean hips and long hands. The crowds, as they always had and always would, parted seamlessly before Him, and he reached for her.  
  
A sure grip, a quick tug, and she tumbled compliantly towards him, uncaring of where she went as long as the Music followed. What She wore was white, tight, and slightly scandalous, given its sheer quality and Her healthy glow. He pulled her closer, one hand skating across her back. His fingers splayed, tracing filigree patterns in the sheen of sweat that was the only thing covering the expanse of skin.  
  
His hands etched her while his head turned to the side and eyes fluttered closed, his body began to move. Sharp, short, the music pushed him, demanding movement, back and forth, harsh and grating. Her music was a touch slower, a touch softer, her hips moving with a creamy sensuality that surprised him. Given what he knew of Her, he'd expect the opposite roles. The thoughts were fleeting and fractured, remnants soon chased off by the beat.  
  
This - this was what he craved, this was what had drawn him in so long ago, and what he hungered for, long after the chemical thirst had faded. The Music was pure, and clean, and utterly single-minded. It drove him, unlike physical or chemical longing, to find himself. He was distracted for a moment by the touch of Her hand sliding down his cheek, but returned quickly to the only thing that mattered here - finding His music.  
  
Others had told him that the Music felt like sex to them, but he couldn't disagree more. The trappings were similar, but for him, sex was about losing his self, losing control in another person, however ephemerally. Music, though, music was finding himself in the beat that drove through him, that pulsed within - only to give Him more of himself, making Him more himself, distilled to the finest, purest essence.  
  
It seemed nothing like sex to him, despite the sweat and skin and gyrating bodies, and perhaps, he thought as a hand neither His nor Hers scraped across his ass, that said something about the people he was sleeping with, but he'd save those thoughts for Thursday afternoons spent - and he meant that literally - in a too-plush chair fourteen stories up with a multiple doctorate. Tonight, tonight was about enjoying the music, reveling in its resonance within him, feeling it fill him like it did everyone else. So few things he had to share with anyone else.  
  
The thoughts tightened his one hand against Her back while the second skated across Her hip, pulling her closer, tighter, hotter, hip to hip because this might not be the same as sex but some instincts are hard to ignore. Her hands were twined above her head, removing all restraints from her body, even those she placed on Herself, and he reached up, pulling them down to rest on his neck and it tied the two them together, the pulse of the Music shooting through him and resounding back from her, doubling, tripling, echoing in an infinity of reflective images through them both - neverending.  
  
It was bliss of a guilt-free (well, not much) kind and since He'd grown a conscience where the chemicals had once been, it would have to do, but oh it was more than enough. Especially when a thigh insinuated its way between both of his and they rocked back and forth, in synchrony now, a moving, pushing, pulling mass of Music.  
  
And so it continued, and so it crescendoed, until the Music began to fade out, the last fluttering breaths of a vibrant old spirit dying in bed with a smile on her lips, because he'd carefully chosen a late entrance, the better to resist the darker temptations that were inevitable skeletal bedfellows to the Music.  
  
They rocked to a halt as the Music faded out, and the beast shook itself from the stupor, blinking its thousand eyes against the light. The beast became banal, and He watched with regret as chatter erupted and the waves broke apart like raindrops shattering against rock. She remained, though, rocking slightly, coming down. Her eyes were closed, and he feasted on the sight of her, skin alight, face upturned, lips parted, cheeks flushed with rapture - it was Musical.  
  
They came to stand still and breathe in the last remnants of the night, and slowly, regretfully, Her eyes fluttered open. Her gaze unfocussed but clear, they took in His visage with a pleased, sated, smile upon her lips. No surprise, no exclamation, and his admiration racheted up a notch.  
  
"Lex." She said, and it was a purr, a prayer, a siren song. "Hi."  
  
"Chloe." He greeted in return, and then he leaned down and kissed her, tongue and teeth and waxy lipstick and all, grinding his mouth into hers with a tenderness and ferocity still unknown to him. Her hands molded the line of his shoulders through the sweat-soaked silk, and he moaned into her mouth. A moment to realize what was happening, what had happened, and he pulled away with a start and would have stayed that way if not for a small square hand at his nape pulling him insistently down for confirmation.  
  
For there was no other explanation now, nothing but the bizarre, inexplicable, somewhat miraculous truth. No denial was possible, no alternative presented. Lex had found the clear green tone, the truth of himself, on *Chloe's lips*. He'd tasted His music, the music inside, and it was her. It was home.  
  
END 


End file.
